


this is not a spy film (this is every hollywood story)

by notcaycepollard



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hollywood, Coulson's huge crush on Skye, F/M, JUST KISS ALREADY, Mutual Pining, Pining, Secret Relationship, Slow Burn, can you tell I do not live in LA, everything I know about filmmaking I learned from the Wikipedia article on filmmaking, i guess kinda?, kiiiiiind of crackfic, mention of Bobbi/Jemma, mention of Nat/Maria, pining orphans in love, these pining orphan babes, writing fake pretentious film reviews is very hard
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-13
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-20 13:34:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,681
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4789145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notcaycepollard/pseuds/notcaycepollard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"My life would be a lot easier right now if you stopped dating your lead actress and denying you're dating your lead actress," Nat emails him, and Coulson doesn't bother to reply.</p><p> </p><p>Phil Coulson: director, scriptwriter, Hollywood disaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is not a spy film (this is every hollywood story)

Phil Coulson thinks he's quit the industry for good, this time. Five years ago, he was Hollywood's newest darling. Every actor wanted to work with him. But three box office disappointments, an arthouse failure and a catastrophe of an ensemble film later, he's dead in the water. At least he's got out while he still has enough money to lie on a beach feeling sorry for himself.

He takes a swig of whisky, morosely scans the horizon through his dark glasses. It's exactly what he's seen the last week: azure waves, glimmering white sand, gently waving palms. It's  _boring as hell_. He slumps back in his deck chair, pulls his half-read, dropped-in-the-water-once novel over his face, and goes to sleep.

Phil wakes up horrifically sunburnt, which he doesn't care about in the slightest, because he's also got a blindingly good idea, a story that's come out of nowhere fully formed and demanding that he writes it right the fuck now. He goes back to his hotel room, grabs his laptop and a bottle of water, and sets up camp by the pool. For the next three days, he writes frenetically. He orders iced coffee and grilled cheese at irregular intervals from the bewildered poolside bar staff and writes with a sandwich in one hand, catches snatches of sleep and wakes up to hash out another five thousand words. It's almost like he's  _remembering_ the storyline, somehow, and it fills him up with electric urgency. By day three, his script's complete, and it's rough but it's  _good_ , it's really good, he knows. It could revive his reputation. It could win awards.

It needs finance.

" _Fuck_ ," he swears, because he hates the finance dance, and also because he's now realising that his sunburn really, really hurts. He sighs, swallows the last of his coffee, and makes the call.

"Why are you calling me, asshole," Nick demands as soon as he picks up the phone, and Coulson can't help but grin.

"I've got a script for you. Sir."

" _You've_ got a script for  _me,_ " Nick says skeptically. Coulson pinches the bridge of his nose, takes a deep breath.

"You owe me," he replies, "for  _Avenge Me_. It could have been a great film, Nick, you know that, but you let the studios get too involved and I was panned by the critics  _and_ the public. I still haven't recovered from that savaging Loki fucking Laufeyson gave me in the New York Times. You  _owe me_." There's a long pause. "Let me just send you the script, okay? It's just a draft, but- read it, and see what you think."

"I'll read it," Nick says, eventually. "But no promises." Phil emails the attachment, waits for two hours. His phone rings just as he's contemplating some kind of mixed drink with both coconut and pineapple and no fewer than three paper umbrellas.

"Goddamnit, Phil," Nick says, when he picks up. "Goddamnit."

"You'll fund me?"

"Yeah, I'll fund you, you son of a bitch. Name me as executive producer and give me a creative credit. Who've you got for production?"

"Nobody, yet. You're the first person I called. Why?"

"I'll put Hill on it, then."

"Seriously? Maria? She'll dictate my cast, and you know I prefer to do my own casting."

"Hill casts your lead," Nick says, with finality. "You'll get input on the other choices. How's Tahiti? I hear it's a magical place."

"It sucks," Coulson replies, being a snot because he can. "Unless you like perfect beaches and great weather. I'll be home tomorrow. Get the paperwork ready." He hangs up, contemplates that mixed drink some more. "Hey, can I get one of those?" he asks the waiter eventually, because fuck it, he's back in the game. "Maybe with, like, four of those umbrellas? Thanks. Great."

He's  _back in the game_. He's only a little bit terrified.

 

+

 

Coulson is a  _lot_ terrified of Maria Hill, which is absolutely normal because everyone in Hollywood is terrified of Maria Hill. She's not just any producer, she's  _the_ producer; she runs the behind-the-scenes of filmmaking with an iron will and five-inch stilettos and Coulson swears he once saw her punch a paparazzi photographer out so hard she left indents of her rings in his zygomatic arch. She gives him a long, unimpressed look when they meet in Nick's conference room, then flicks open a folder, considers it, slides it across the table to him with one perfectly manicured finger.

"Your lead," she tells him. Coulson looks down at the folder and winces.

"Grant Ward? Moody heartthrob Grant Ward? I'm casting a complex spy thriller here, not some teen dream blockbuster."

"He's looking to move genre," Hill replies flatly. "His last film,  _The Specialist_ , got him noticed by critics. We've already approached him, off the record, and he's interested. You'll get the rest of the finance you need, with Nick's studio and Grant Ward signed on. You need star power, Phil, Grant will bring that to the table. I'm amenable to let you cast otherwise as you see fit, although I'd recommend an established actress for the female lead. We can't afford Jennifer Lawrence, but you might consider Emily Blunt."

"Too well-known," Coulson mutters, "I want someone fresh."

"We'll bring on a casting director and run auditions," Hill says blandly. "Have you put together your team yet?"

"I want Melinda," Phil admits, "but let me talk to her in person, okay? As for the DOP, I haven't got someone in mind, why?"

"You'll want Fitzsimmons," Maria tells him, and her expression softens; she looks almost impressed. They must be good. "Leo Fitz and Jemma Simmons, they're a young auteur team fresh out of Cannes. He's a lighting designer and she's cinematography, they work together like you would not believe, they've got it down to a  _science_ and it reads like art. You'll want them for your team, Phil, take it from me."

"Sure," Coulson agrees. "Let me go talk to May."

 

+

 

"No," Melinda says, as soon as she sees him. "No, Phil."

"You don't even know what I'm here for," he protests, and May sighs, shoos him in the door. She's barefoot, dressed down in faded jeans and a t-shirt, and he smiles genuinely at her. "You're looking good," he says, and she rolls her eyes.

"What  _are_ you here for?" she asks, when they've settled at her kitchen counter and she's made them each a mug of herbal tea.

"I've got a script," he tells her, and she takes a long sip of her tea, waits for him to continue. "I want you as Assistant Director."

" _Phil_ ," she replies, and her voice is softer than he'd like. "After  _Cavalry_ , you know I promised Andrew I'd never work with you again. That shoot in Bahrain was a nightmare. Child actors in an arthouse thing, seriously, what were you thinking. I've only just put my marriage back together. I had to go to  _anger management_ lessons, Phil, it was that much of a clusterfuck. And I heard what happened with  _Avenge Me_. You're dead out there."

"I know," he says, "May, I know, but I need you on this, it's a good script, it'll be a good film, but I can't work with someone new. I need an AD I can trust." May looks up at him, serious all of a sudden. 

"You don't have finance," she says, and he shakes his head.

"I do."

" _Who_ funded you?" she demands, "seriously, because they're idiots."

"Sound and Fury Studios," he tells her, "they've greenlit, and Grant Ward is signed as the lead," and that gives her pause.

"Let me think about it," she says eventually, and Coulson knows that's a yes. She's silent for a moment, and then smirks at him. "Phil," she says, "what the hell happened to your face?"

"Sunburn," he says darkly, and she laughs and laughs. "Oh!" he remembers. "I brought you back a souvenir. From Tahiti." May takes the hula girl doll from him with something that could almost be a smile, sets it down on her counter and taps it to make the girl dance.

 

+

 

Everything is going smoothly, so far as pre-production goes, which means every day has approximately five million problems to deal with, and Coulson is living on shitty black coffee and rage and occasional guilty cigarettes. He's  _missed this_. It's a glorious mess. They still haven't cast their female lead, though, and although Hill brings in Pepper, who Phil  _knows_ is a top-rated casting director and who is frankly almost as terrifying, in expensive suits and pointed stilettos, as Maria herself, nobody they audition is right for the role. Hill's beginning to give him dark looks, and he knows they don't have much time before they really need to get into read-throughs. He takes himself to a shitty diner to mull over the problem.

"Can I get you some more coffee?" the waitress says, interrupting his mulling (and it's world-class, okay, he's great at mulling), and he nods, glances up.

"What's your pie today?" he asks, because he deserves pie. He deserves gas station donuts, actually, but he can't be bothered walking across the street.

"It's cherry," she tells him, "hey, aren't you- aren't you Phil Coulson? The director? You did  _I Am Iron Man_ , right?"

"Yeah," he sighs, "and I'll take a slice of pie, okay."

"Sure, I'll be right back," she says, a little breathless, and Coulson frowns, because he doesn't think he's exactly fangirl material. She brings him back the pie almost immediately, slides the plate down in front of him, and then pauses.

"Uh, thanks," he tells her, looking quizzical. She ducks her head, gives him a shy look.

"I hope I'm not, um, bothering you, I just wanted to tell you, I really love your work, I mean, I've been following it for a while, actually."

"Thank you," he says, hiding an eye-roll, because he's not actually a total asshole all of the time. "It's always nice to meet a fan."

"Yeah, well, ever since, uh, your documentary, you know, the one with Mike Peterson and Hannah Hutchins?  _This Impossible Power_? It was just really moving, actually, so-"

"You've seen  _This Impossible Power_ ," Coulson interrupts, because  _nobody_ has seen that film. "Nobody's seen that. It was the first thing I ever made, it only got a limited release, and then-"

"The studios shut it down, I know, I know. I mean, what did you expect, filming a documentary into labor abuses and safety issues within the experimental science world? I'm surprised you didn't get a takedown notice from, like, Quinn Energy."

"Yeah, that defamation proceeding was why the studio pulled it, actually," Coulson mutters, and the waitress laughs, visibly hesitates before sliding into the booth seat opposite him.

"I'm Skye," she says, ducks her head again behind her long shiny hair. "I just... the way you filmed it, I don't think many people would have made that choice. It felt really, I don't know, tender? And that moment with Mike, the long shot, where you waited for the pause and then he says-"

"It matters who you are," Coulson says, in unison with her, and she looks up at him, startled.

"Yeah," she agrees. "It matters who you are. And it, the documentary, it seemed like you valued your subjects, you know, and you were balancing that care with searching for the truth about what happened, but I..." she pauses, for a long moment, looks far away. He can see emotions play across her face in a way he's almost never seen before. "I think you have to try. To search for that truth. That's important," she says eventually, looks at him very intently, and Coulson feels like he can't breathe.

"Skye," he gets out, "have you ever, uh, thought of acting?"

 

+

 

"Phil, no," May groans, and "Coulson,  _no_ ," Maria grits out, and "seriously? I thought this was a professional production," Ward scowls. Coulson raises his hands at all of them.

"Come on, just let her at least do a screen test, okay? I think we've really got something." 

"One screen test," Hill concedes, and when they finish, even she looks reluctantly impressed.

"I thought I'd be working against a trained A-lister," Ward gripes, "if you wanted someone Chinese why didn't you get Helen Cho?"

"Helen Cho is Korean," Coulson says, giving him a level stare, and Ward just rolls his eyes.

"Whatever," he says dismissively, and Coulson takes a deep breath, because he knows this guy's integral to their financing, but fuck he's an  _ass_. "Now you're telling me my co-star is some hick waitress living in East Hollywood?"

"Actually, I think she's been living in her van," Coulson says blandly, because he's tired of Ward's bullshit. Ward's face gets scowlier, and he sulks off somewhere to, Coulson doesn't know, look at photos of his cheekbones. "Cast Skye," he tells Pepper. "Maybe, uh, find her an apartment, too. Or get Darcy on it, I don't know, that's what we have assistants for, right?"

 

+

 

Ward continues to sulk until they get to the first read-through, gives Skye a cool once-over and turns back to his assistant to demand more iced water, still, with a single slice of (organic, Meyer,  _not_ Lisbon) lemon on the side. Coulson rolls his eyes conspiratorially at Skye and she hides a smirk behind her script. Then they start, and suddenly Skye's not  _Skye_ , cheerful LA girl with bouncy hair and sparkly eyes. She's Agent Daisy Johnson, utterly and absolutely, cool and focused and laser-intense. Coulson watches the way Ward suddenly straightens up in his chair and loses the attitude, and smiles to himself.

They start shooting, and Coulson continues to be impressed, because this might be her first rodeo but Skye's a hard worker and a natural. She picks it up quickly, never complains about 5am call times, and when they're on set, she listens carefully to his direction, watches the way Fitzsimmons work, and seems to find her light and angle and focus every time. In comparison, directing Ward is making Coulson grit his teeth. Some scenes go perfectly smoothly. Others, they run through take after take, May's face getting more expressionless every time she calls "roll camera!" and the clapperboard slaps shut.

"How can I fight for the truth if I don't even know who I am," Ward says, and Skye leans in, her dark eyes wide and genuine.

"It might be worse than you think," she tells him. "You don't know what you'll find."

"It can't be worse than what I've imagined," Ward replies, scrunching his eyebrows into something that Coulson thinks maybe is supposed to read 'serious emotions'.

"Cut," Coulson calls, "cut, Ward, can you just... can you give me less emotive potato, here, and more real feelings? This is the scene where you open up to her, okay, it's supposed to read as  _intimate_." Ward looks outraged and furious, and May coughs to hide a laugh.

"Emotive potato?" she mutters, and Coulson sighs, because okay, that was probably a bit unprofessional.

"Let's take five," he calls, "Skye, just keep it up, okay, you're doing great. Ward, I'm... I'm sure you've got those feelings in there somewhere. I guess." He considers his clipboard, doodles a picture of a poop with a sad face on it. It could probably do a better job than Ward in this scene, he thinks, and adds some stink waves.

 

+

 

"You know why it's not working," May tells him, when she finds him in his trailer that night, going over the dailies. Coulson sighs heavily, has another sip of his scotch. May sits down next to him, grabs the bottle, pours herself a glass. "Coulson. You  _know_ why it's not working."

"It's Ward," Phil agrees. "He's not right."

"It's not Ward," May argues. "Or, well, it is, but that's not it. You need to rewrite. This isn't Ward's story, Coulson. This is hers. Rewrite it and make Agent Daisy the lead. Skye can handle it."

"Yeah," Coulson agrees, because she can, she will. "Yeah, I'll rewrite it." He takes another mouthful, swallows, and pronounces with gloomy satisfaction, "Grant Ward is going to throw the worst fucking tantrum."

Grant Ward does throw the worst fucking tantrum: he storms into Coulson's trailer, flings down his script. "What the  _fuck_ is this," he demands, and Coulson looks up.

"Rewrites," he says, calm and bland. "Script's been re-worked. It wasn't working."

"You made me the support character," Grant scowls. "This was  _my film_ , Coulson, and you made me the fucking support role?"

"Yeah," Phil agrees, "but I think you'll do a really great job at it, okay."

"You  _kill me off_ forty-five minutes before the end!" Grant grits out, gives Coulson a death glare.

"Are we done?" Coulson asks, because he's so fucking done. He's a month behind on schedule thanks to the re-writes and has to try and salvage what footage they've already got. He's not here for Grant and his anger issues. 

He doesn't expect to hear any more about it, because for all his tantrums and sulks, Grant Ward is actually a fairly decent A-list actor and he's got a solid reputation. Which is why, when Skye calls Coulson at two am sounding shaky and upset, he doesn't expect it at all. 

"Skye? What's wrong?" he asks, stifling a yawn, and she lets out what almost sounds like a sob.

"Can I - are you on set?"

"I'm at home," he replies, "look, get an Uber and come over?" When she gets to his house, she looks pale and shaken, and Coulson has a moment of wanting to pull her into a hug, to hold her close. He ushers her in, instead, offers her tea or hot chocolate and a seat on his couch. She's only in a thin beaded dress, he realizes, and he goes upstairs, grabs a sweatshirt and a blanket and wraps her up warm. She kicks off her heels, tucks her feet up underneath her, and begins to look a little more okay.

"What the hell happened?" he asks, eventually, and she lets out a long sigh.

"Grant Ward happened," she says, looking a little sideways at him.

"Grant- Skye,  _what_."

"He asked me out for dinner," she says quietly, "said he wanted to discuss the rewrites, get a handle on the character motivations. So we went for dinner, and then he took me to, I don't know, some club, and he kept giving me drinks, and then he, uh, he kissed me, and, like, he's  _Grant Ward_ , you know? He's on every magazine cover. I was flattered. So we... we were kissing, and it should have been, you know, fine. It should have been nice. But it just, it didn't feel right." She stops talking, takes a long sip of her tea and stares into the mug, and then looks up at Coulson. "He started talking about the rewrites again, said I should tell you I couldn't handle the new role. He asked me to do it,  _for him_ , because, like, apparently I'm just this idiot waitress who's totally star struck by Grant Ward, you know."

"I'll fire him," Phil says immediately, because he's fucking  _furious_. "I'll fire him, and then I will  _destroy_ him." Skye smiles a little bitterly.

"Well," she says, "I don't think you have to worry about that, because I told him I wouldn't do it, that I liked the rewrites, that I wanted to be the lead, and he got kind of nasty." She blinks back tears, looks steadily at Coulson. "He, um, he told me I'd only got the role because I slept with you, and that it doesn't matter if I fuck up the film because your career's already dead, but he's damned if he's going to stick around and let it affect his. And then he left. And that's when I called you."

Coulson is  _incandescent_ with fury, the kind where he could cheerfully punch Grant Ward right in the fucking throat, but he tamps it down, sets Skye up with a pair of clean flannel pajamas and his guest room, calls Maria Hill, because this was her casting call and if he's awake at three am so should she be. She's utterly, flatly calm about the entire thing, a calm that belies the simmering anger just below. _  
_

"We'll clear it up," she promises, "if he's quit then we'll re-cast, and I'll see you in the morning, I need to run damage control."

"Bring a change of clothes," he tells her, "Skye's asleep in my guest room." Maria just sighs and hangs up on him without another word.

 

+

 

Both Maria and May converge on his house the next morning at 8, looking like twin furies, and it's May who tells him, in the end.

"Pull up that gossip page, the Clairvoyant!, on TMZ," she says, expressionless. Phil grabs his tablet and does so, confused, because he  _never_ reads TMZ, for obvious reasons.

 _Grant Ward quits SHIELD production in casting scandal shock!!!_ the headline proclaims, and Coulson feels his jaw set. He scans the article:

 

 

> * * *
> 
> Hottie action star Grant Ward announced today that he is withdrawing from the Coulson-directed thriller  _SHIELD_ , after discovering that his co-star, newcomer Skye Zabo, was cast for what he intimates are 'unprofessional' reasons. "The director's totally obsessed with her," Grant told an insider last night, in a Clairvoyant! exclusive. "She's a sweet girl, but as a professional actor, I take my craft seriously. As a result, I've made the hard decision to leave the  _SHIELD_  production and move in another direction." Clairvoyant! understands that Ward is now in talks with John Garrett, who is currently in pre-production for his long-awaited film  _The Hydra_. 
> 
> * * *
> 
>  

" _What_ ," Coulson says, after a long pause. At that moment, Skye pads down the stairs, still in Coulson's pajamas, and both May and Hill give him a considered look. To their credit, neither of them ask the obvious question, and Coulson doesn't know whether to feel relieved that they both implicitly trust him, or insulted that they'd ever think otherwise.

"There's been... some unpleasantness. In the press," May tells Skye eventually, obviously expecting her to get upset, but Skye just sighs, pours herself a cup of coffee from the pot Phil has brewing.

"Ward, right? Saying I slept my way into the role? I can face it if you can, director, it's not going to put me off my game. Let's shoot this damn film and let my performance speak for itself." May and Hill both blink, and Coulson smiles to himself, because he didn't expect anything less from her, but god, it's good. He lets himself look at her just a little, takes in the way her sleep-rumpled hair wispily frames her face, the softness of her un-made-up eyes, and looks away because it suddenly feels dangerous.

"What the fuck is  _The Hydra_ , anyway," May asks, sounding as pissed off as Coulson's ever heard. He snorts.

"Oh that, Garrett's been stuck with it in development hell for years. He sent me the script a couple of years back. Some generic thing about upper-middle class white manpain and redemption. I think he shoots a Senator, or something, goes on the run. Meets some poor girl and gives her Stockholm syndrome that's somehow romantic and touching."

"Sounds right up Ward's alley," Skye snarks, and finishes her coffee. "Anyway, I was thinking, if we have to re-shoot completely, what do you feel about me cutting my hair? I think it'll work better, for Daisy's character."

"Sure," Coulson agrees, because he'd frankly agree to anything Skye wants right now, up to and including a pony. Maria smiles a very sharp smile.

"I know a great hairdresser," she says, "the Winter Stylist, he's Russian. Or maybe Russian via Brooklyn, I don't know, it was kind of complicated. He's great with scissors, though."

"Awesome," Skye grins. "Awesome."

 

+

  
Phil drives Skye back to her apartment, because he feels a little protective of her right now, doesn't quite want to let her out of his sight. She raises an eyebrow when he opens his garage door and she sees his car, flicks a look at him that he can't quite interpret.

"Nice car," she says, trailing a finger along the bonnet. " _Very_ nice."

"Lola's alright," he agrees, slides into the driver's seat. Skye opens the passenger door, gives him a longer look.

"You named your car?"

"I did," he says, puts on a pair of sunglasses because it's a bright LA day. Skye continues to stare at him, for just long enough that he's discomforted under her direct gaze. "Something on my face?" he asks, and she blushes, drops her eyes.

"You're pretty cool, aren't you, director?"

"Am I?" he asks blandly, and she reaches out, straightens his collar, lets her fingers brush his throat.

"Oh yeah," she says, her hand lingering just a little longer than it should. "I think you're very cool. I mean, you cast me, after all, so I know you've got good taste, but three-piece suits and classic red convertibles and a house full of abstract expressionist work? Very cool,  _Phil_." _  
_

Coulson only smiles in acknowledgment, but it sits in his thoughts for the next few days. Skye thinks he's  _cool_. What does that mean.

 

+

 

Finding Ward's replacement is not something he's looking forward to, but help comes from an unexpected direction. They're briefing the essential crew on the change, and Simmons clears her throat, looks a little nervous.

"You need a new Ward, right? To fill the support lead role?"

"Yeah, we do," Coulson agrees. "We'll bring Pepper back in for re-casts."

"Well it's just that, ah, if what I read is true, and Ward's taking the lead in Garrett's Hydra thing, then Garrett's put his other project,  _Providence_ , on hold, and that means Antoine's out of a role, and I really think he'd be excellent, sir." _  
_

"Antoine Triplett?" Coulson frowns, because he's  _heard_ of the guy, but he's not sure. Simmons nods.

"I worked with him at film school. Shot a short with him, you're welcome to take a look. But I really do vouch for him. I think he and Skye would have excellent chemistry." Coulson watches the short, sees enough potential to call Triplett in for a test scene with Skye, and Simmons is right, Triplett brings energy and a gentle warm humor that was missing from Ward's brand of sulky and dour. It revitalizes the whole thing. Suddenly,  _SHIELD_ feels like it's on the right direction, again.

 

+

 

Of course, because Skye's determined to prove herself, she insists that she can do all of her own stunts, and Phil is  _fucking terrified_ because some of the stunts are pretty huge. He hires a professional stuntwoman, Bobbi Morse, has her go through weeks of training with Skye, but the night before the big scene, he finds himself sitting in his trailer, dailies unwatched in front of him, running through all the ways it could go wrong. He tries to put it out of his mind half a dozen times, gives up, walks across the lot and knocks on Skye's trailer door before he can talk himself out of it.

"Coulson, hey," she says, looking surprised. She's in shorts and a loose grey sweater, her script in one hand and a pink highlighter pen in the other, and he thinks, traitorously,  _fuck_  she's beautiful. "You want to come in?"

"I'm not interrupting, am I?" he asks, stepping inside. She shakes her head, sets down the script.

"No, not at all, I'm just running over those scenes we're going to shoot next week, the second location ones."

"Oh, the ones in Hunan province? Yeah. Pack a raincoat, it's monsoon season there."

"Ugh, why couldn't you have written a secret family in  _Hawaii_ ," she says playfully, opens her fridge and cracks open a sparkling water. She offers him one and he shakes his head. "I'll have you know I look super great in a bikini, Coulson, our audience is missing out."

"You know Phil is fine," he tells her, trying not to think about the image of Skye in a bikini. She flops down on the couch, grinning up at him.

"Well,  _Phil_ , why not Hawaii, huh? Or Tahiti? I hear Tahiti is great."

"It's a magical place," he cracks, "it's where I wrote the screenplay, actually."

"Really?" she asks, sitting forward, and he sits down at the other end of the couch, tells her about how he'd written it in all of three days. "That's  _amazing_ ," she says at the end of his story, "seriously, I knew you were good, but three days? That's inhuman, when did you even  _sleep_?"

"I kind of didn't," he admits. "That's the thing I've found, with filmmaking. It eats you alive and spits you out and then you want to do it all over again."

"Even after  _Cavalry_? And  _Avenge Me_?" Skye says softly, and he winces. "Seriously, what even happened there?"

"It was supposed to be a fresh take on a team movie, an ensemble cast, you know. I'd worked with some of them before, good actors, James Rhodes from  _I Am Iron Man_ , and Jane Foster had been really incredible in that Christopher Nolan science fiction thing, what was it,  _Einstein-Rosen Bridge_ , but the studio wanted a particular lead. And I guess, uh, Bruce was pretty volatile, really, a lot of issues, and it just got completely out of hand. Nick made me bring in a  _consultant_ as co-writer and producer, some competent asshole with a stupid goatee and some really nice suits. He rewrote the whole thing and his brand of storytelling is very different from mine, our styles just didn't mesh at all. And they went to release before I'd got a cut I was actually happy with, and then that New York Times review pretty much stabbed me in the heart. Metaphorically speaking." Skye laughs, and Coulson rolls his eyes at his own dramatics. "It just... it wasn't the kind of filmmaking I wanted to be doing. The studios wanted bigger, bigger, all the time, but I wanted to be working on something small and intense and full of meaning. I think that's what we're doing here, you know."

"Yeah," Skye agrees. "Yeah. It- I'm glad you hired me, Phil. You saw something in me, and I have to be honest, I still don't know what it was, but you valued it, and that means something, to me. It means a lot." There's a long pause, and Coulson realizes he's staring at her.

"I should let you sleep," he says, to fill the silence. "Big scene tomorrow." He stands up, looks awkwardly down at her.

"Oh yeah," Skye replies. "Big scene. Kiss for luck?" She holds out one hand, reclines on her couch like an classic Hollywood starlet, and Coulson huffs a laugh, takes her hand and bows over it, brushes a light kiss to her knuckles. Skye maintains eye contact, stretches out a little further, and he leaves before he does something really stupid like kiss his (gorgeous) (too young) lead actress.

 

+

 

The next day, Skye sits through costume and makeup looking much more serious than usual. She listens to Bobbi's coaching without a word, nods, steps into the set, and the stunt crew clip her into the wires. Coulson feels a pang of worry, goes to check that she's okay.

"You good? Ready to roll?" he asks, and she gives him a thumbs up. Bobbi steps in, gives the wirework and harness a long check, talks Skye through the scene, and she just grins.

"Let's get this going," she says enthusiastically, "I've always wanted to fly."

It takes longer than that, of course; Trip has to be wired in too, and something about the lighting's not right, and the choreographer has to go over the scene to check nothing in the set will interfere. Coulson sits back in his canvas chair, waits with the patience of a director who's been through this a thousand times, and tries not to fret.

"I wouldn't worry, mate," an English guy tells him, sliding into the empty chair next to him. "Your girl will be fine. Bob's got it all under control."

"I- what- she's not  _my girl_ ," Coulson says, startled, and glances to his left. The man shrugs, takes a sip from his bottle.

"Sure looks like your girl, the way you're worrying. You want a beer?"

"No, I don't want a  _beer_ , it's six in the morning. And I don't know who you are or what you're doing drinking on my set."

"Relax, it's ginger beer, I'm on the wagon and everything. Lance Hunter. Accent coach." He holds out his hand to shake, and Coulson stares at him, because he doesn't remember hiring an  _accent coach_.

"I don't remember hiring an accent coach," he says stiffly, and Hunter shrugs.

"I do a great American accent, darlin'," he drawls, and Coulson snorts with laughter, because it's literally the worst American accent he's ever heard. He thinks it might have started out Texan, maybe. Hunter shrugs. "Honestly, sir? I'm one of the subcontracted freelance stunt doubles. Heights aren't really my  _thing_  though, which is more hilarious than it sounds, for a stunt man."

"Oh,  _you're_ Hunter. Bobbi's hellbeast ex we keep hearing about?"

"Hey," Hunter tells him, "she might say all that, but who do you think subcontracted me? Anyway, seriously, Bobbi's the best. Skye will be safe up there. She wouldn't let her do the stunt if it wasn't." Coulson feels strangely comforted at that. It's a start.

Of course, Skye takes to the wire work with absolute breathless, daredevil enthusiasm. Three hours later, she's hanging upside-down by her harness, whooping with laughter, while Bobbi shows her the momentum she needs to make the kick look flawless.

"Hey director," Skye calls, "you wanna take a selfie with me and Bobbi?"

"Sure," he replies, perplexed.

"Awesome, bring my phone over, would you?" He picks up her iPhone, comes over to stand between the two of them. Skye slides a little closer, angles her phone and snaps a shot of them, Bobbi and Skye upside-down and Coulson stern in a crisply buttoned suit.

"This is  _so much fun_ ," she says, as she captions it #FlyingHighOnSet #StuntWomenRock #YaGirlDoesHerOwnStunts, and Coulson blinks, suddenly feels stupidly endeared to her.

 

+

 

For all his worry about the big stunt scenes, it's the next day's one that goes all wrong, and he doesn't expect it at all. The set's cramped, tiny, designed to look like an underground vault that's half caved in, and Skye can barely move. The cameras start rolling, and Coulson waits for Skye to hit the beat, knock out the scene flawlessly. She doesn't. She freezes up, and Coulson sees through the monitors that she looks  _terrified._

" _Cut_ ," he yells, "get her out of there, Bobbi,  _now_." Bobbi scrambles onto set, yanks away one of the 'stones' to a bellow from their set designer.

"Quit destroying my set!"

"Suck it up, Mack, really not the time," Coulson grinds out, and goes to check on Skye. She's wrapped in a terrycloth robe, shivering, and Bobbi's running a soothing hand up her back.

"Hey, hey, you're fine," she's saying, and Skye looks apologetically at Coulson.

"What's wrong?" he asks, and she runs her hand through her hair.

"I, uh... apparently I'm claustrophobic," she admits. "Sorry, Director, I didn't know, it just..." Coulson blows out a breath, touches her gently on the arm.

"Hey, don't apologize. It's fine, we'll get a double in, we'll make it work," he reassures her, and Skye looks instantly upset.

"I want to do the scene," she insists. "I can work with it, director,  _please_." Coulson stares at her for a moment, and she squares her jaw. He turns to his film crew.

"Fitzsimmons, can you get the cameras rigged enough to do it in a single take?" he asks, because if anyone can, it's this duo. They look thoughtfully at each other.

"Wellllll, if I set up the lighting rig..." Fitz says, and Simmons nods.

"Yes, I could bring in the overhead boom, or what if we tried out that new thing we've been playing with, you know, the..."

"The dwarves? Good  _thinking_ , Simmons," Fitz agrees.

"The dwarves? I hesitate to ask," Coulson interjects. Simmons blushes.

"Fitz is a bit of a gadget guy, director. The dwarves are, uh-"

"It stands for Dollycam With Automated Response Visual Effects and Sound," Fitz interrupts. "We haven't tried the set-up on set. It might take some calibrating. But it'll still cut the take time, I think."

"We'll give it a try," Coulson agrees, and Skye smiles.

While they wait for Fitzsimmons to get the dwarves up and running, Skye sits in her canvas chair and reads Twitter and fidgets, trying not to rub the carefully applied makeup 'dirt' off her cheek. "I'm thinking of getting a dog," she says, out of nowhere, and Coulson's confused at first, then sees her white knuckles, the tension across her shoulders, the nervous jitter of her knee.

"What kind of dog?" Bobbi asks, very light, and Coulson appreciates how she's distracting Skye from what she's about to do. Skye shrugs.

"Maybe a French bulldog? They have cute ears." Fitzsimmons make a noise that sounds as if they've figured out their tech issues, and Skye takes a deep breath,  shucks off her robe. 

"Just remember, keep yourself centered," Bobbi counsels. "I think you're a rockstar, seriously. We'll talk you through it the whole time."

"Okay," Skye agrees, considers the set. "You want one take, director?"

"If you can give me the performance in one take," he tells her, "I won't just buy you a puppy, I'll get you the whole damn pet store."

They get it in three takes, in the end, and Skye's performance is raw and fragile and powerful. When Bobbi helps her climb back out of the vault, she's grinning with adrenaline, gives Coulson a cheeky look.

"That gets a puppy, right?"

"Yeah," he agrees, "once the film's in the can, that definitely gets you a puppy."

 

+

 

They finish filming the next month, and the crew throws a wrap party that's extremely raucous. Coulson goes, because he can't not, and quietly drinks whisky in the corner. Skye seems to have hit it off with Trip; the pair are inseparable, taking goofy selfies and playing drinking games and telling stories that Coulson's  _sure_ can't be entirely true. He's not  _jealous_ , he tells himself, Trip's too nice for him to be jealous, but- he and Skye are just usually a team, that's all. He frowns at himself, because pull it together, Phil, for fuck's sake, and proceeds to get very drunk.

Fitzsimmons are even drunker, though, which is hilarious. Fitz's Scottish brogue has gotten so thick nobody's entirely sure he's actually still speaking English. Eventually Jemma gives up and abandons him to go and make out with Bobbi (and  _that's_ surprising, Coulson thinks, although, in hindsight, maybe not so very surprising), and Fitz winds up talking set design with Mack, because apparently tech transcends language, or something.

"WHAT ARE WE?" Skye yells, raising her glass, and the crew turn to her like she's their linchpin. Maybe she is.

"WE'RE A TEAM!" they shout back, and someone cheers. Coulson snaps his own picture of the scene, because it's really something. Skye catches his eye, looks all of a sudden soft and unguarded.

"So that's it, huh," she says, coming over to stand by him. Coulson laughs.

"Well, no, that's the filming done, now we're into post, and then we'll release and you'll learn the joy and hell that is the press circuit. You'll need a PR rep."

"Phil," Skye hisses, looking aghast, "I don't know if you're aware, here, but I'm a  _waitress._ I don't even have my own  _agent_ , you hired me directly out of a diner. I can't do  _press circuits_."

"It's fine, relax, I'll lend you my publicist. Nat's the best. You'll love her. She'll love  _you_ , oh god."

"Still," she says. "I might not see you for a while, huh? If you're stuck in editing?"

"Yeah," he agrees, feeling sad at the idea. She pokes his shoulder.

"You owe me a puppy before you disappear into the cutting room for weeks, okay. Otherwise I'm leaking all your secrets to the press."

"What secrets?" Coulson smirks, "I've been in the industry for years. People like me, we have no secrets." Skye leans in a little closer, deliberately presses her shoulder against his, lowers her tone conspiratorially.

"I know what color pajamas you like," she breathes into his ear, her lips barely grazing his skin, and Coulson's instantly aching to kiss her. They're at a  _wrap party_. He can't kiss her. He turns his head to face her, almost hits his nose against hers, and she's leaning in  _so close_ , he can see all of the different colours in her eyes the way he's only seen before through long camera close-ups. He  _can't kiss her_. "Director..." she whispers, and he thinks about sliding his fingers around her back of her neck, pulling her in, letting her lick into his mouth. He thinks about going back to her trailer, slamming up against the door, both of them drunk and tasting of whisky, of her pulling open his shirt and pressing her fingers against his skin, tumbling into her unmade bed and fucking loud and hard. Of falling asleep wrapped up in her, the smell of her perfume on his skin. He wants it so badly it hurts. 

Phil's never been the kind of guy who crushes on his actresses, has always looked at those directors with a bit of righteous scorn. It's hard enough being a woman in this industry without lecherous men trying to press advantage, and despite the intimacy of directing someone, he always keeps that bit of distance, enough to make sure it doesn't affect his vision for the film and the character. He's never fallen for someone like this. He thinks maybe he fell for Skye the moment he saw her earnest and emotive in that crappy diner. He closes his eyes, leans back, tugs his glasses off.

"I'll take you to the pet store tomorrow," he says, and she touches his hand briefly.

"You better," she tells him, and he feels her brush her lips against his cheek. Phil is going to go and get a  _lot more drunk_.

 

+

 

When he knocks at her trailer the next day, they're clearly both hideously hungover. Skye winces at the light and noise, shoos him in with a hand pressed to her temple.

"I know we said pet store," she says, "but seriously, I need to eat like five hundred hash browns, and because we're wrapped,  _there's no crafty_." Coulson groans in sympathy.

"Okay, so, greasy spoon diner, and then pet store?"

"You know how to treat a girl," Skye replies, and he thinks she's trying to be teasing but it comes out wistful. He looks at her slowly, realizes they're in her trailer just a few feet from the bed he was fantasizing about last night, and lets out a long breath, gives in, hauls her in for a kiss. "Oh," she says, " _oh_ ," and he lets go, backs off, suddenly horribly worried that they've made a huge mistake. Skye moans, pulls him back toward her, kisses him hard and frantic, and even through his hangover Coulson's glad they didn't do this last night because now he's sober and he's going to remember this.

"This is a mistake," he mutters into her mouth, "we're still in the middle of, you're my  _actress_ , the press are going to-"

"Phil, shut  _up_ ," Skye says, bites his lower lip for emphasis, and for ten breathless, glorious minutes, she kisses him into submission, pressing him down into the couch and climbing into his lap. When she starts tugging off his t-shirt, he pauses, gives her a serious look, and she frowns.

"I- Skye, I, god, I want to just-" He takes a deep breath, tries again, because this is important. "I have to finish the film, and that means I have to maintain a distance, to view it objectively. I'm not saying we  _can't_ , I'm just saying, we..."

"...Later," Skye says, her eyes questioning. "After it's finished? After we've done the release and the press junket and everything?"

"Yeah," he agrees, leaning in for another kiss because he's not quite ready to give this up. "After that. I want your performance to speak for itself, and if the gossip columns got hold of this, they wouldn't..."

"I know," Skye sighs. "I know. Later. We'll- later. But friends? For now?"

"I'd really like that," Coulson agrees, gives her what he knows is a soft look. "So, you want to go eat hash browns and choose a puppy?"

"Best day ever," Skye sparkles, kisses him one more time. "Sorry, I'm... it's going to be hard to stop doing that, frankly.  _Director_."

When they go for breakfast, she hides behind aviator sunglasses and a Dodgers baseball cap, and Phil knows that dressed down he's barely recognisable (the joys of being behind the camera instead of in front of it, he thinks wryly) but apparently some intrepid pap still gets a photo, because Nat emails it to him two hours later with nothing but a question mark attached. Phil looks up from his phone at Skye, who's taking photo after photo with the little tan-colored French bulldog that she's insisted on naming Clark "after Superman, Coulson, okay," and sends back a response.

_She's my lead actress and our film wrapped last night, Nat, we're just friends going out for breakfast._

Nat doesn't reply, because she's Russian and inscrutable and Coulson thinks she probably doesn't believe a single word. She probably knows exactly what's going on, probably has, like, bugs planted in his trailer or Skye's trailer or both. The point is, she stops the press from knowing, and that's why she's the best.

 

+ 

 

He throws himself into post-production for the next three weeks, working closely with his film editor until Steve gives him a long-suffering look and hunches his skinny shoulders.

"Director, it's not that I don't appreciate your passion for it, and I know I'm an actual artist with edits, but the way you're watching me work is pretty unsettling, actually. I've started waking up in the night in a cold sweat thinking that you're watching me sleep. Let me do my job, and as soon as I have a decent cut, I will bring you in and you can pick it to pieces, okay? Now scoot."

"Yessir," Coulson replies, resisting the urge to give Steve a salute, because the guy's tiny, but he projects authority that Coulson can only dream of. His phone buzzes, and he squints at the screen in the dark of the editing room. 

_Clark needs walkies and I'm pretty sure you haven't seen sunlight in two weeks. Am I right?_

Yeah, Skye is right. Clark probably does need walkies. He arranges to meet Skye on Santa Monica beach in an hour. Then he considers his reflection, pulls off his tie and rolls up his sleeves, changes out of his suit trousers into shorts, because a suit on the beach is probably a bit ridiculous. He feels ridiculous. He feels  _nervous_  - he hasn't seen Skye since they kissed, not in person, although she's been regularly sending him texts and stupid Snapchat pictures of her making faces, and more recently, overdubbed videos of what he guesses are modern day pop songs. He's kind of out of touch, he thinks wryly.

The beach is fun, and he doesn't know why he was so anxious, because Skye's friendly and warm and doesn't give him any particular reason to want to kiss her.

He wants to kiss her  _all the time_. He doesn't need a reason.

It's a grey day, cooler and windier than usual for LA, so the beach is fairly empty, and Clark bounds around their legs in excitement until he's exhausted and Skye has to carry him. They wind up sitting in the shelter of a dune, looking out over the waves and the few surfers still dedicated enough to stay in, and Skye links her fingers with his briefly, squeezes his hand.

"How's post going?"

"Pretty well," Coulson says. "Steve's a really great editor. I'm still not sure about the ending, though."

"How come?" Skye asks. "I like it."

"Yeah, but it... I don't know. It's a little too definite, maybe. I like to leave a bit of room for interpretation. Spoon-feeding the audience the answer is no fun." Skye hums in agreement, gazes off down the shore.

As they're walking back to their cars, they go past a soft serve truck, in what Phil thinks is over-optimism on a day like this.

"I'm gonna get ice cream," she says, "you want?" He guesses Skye's exactly the kind of optimism the truck driver is banking on.

"Seriously? It's too cold for ice cream."

"It's never too cold for ice cream, director." She gets a sherbet-dipped cone, and a small plain vanilla one for Clark.

"I don't think you can give dogs ice cream, Skye," he frowns, and she crinkles her nose at him, hands him her phone.

"Whatever, it's a treat. Take a photo of us?" He fiddles with the phone until he finds Instagram, frames the picture on-screen. Skye takes a big lick of her cone, mugs for the camera, and Clark's already covered in melting vanilla soft serve. It's frankly an amazing photo, he admits. She laughs like bells when she sees it, uploads it immediately, and then gets into a losing battle as she tries to clean up her dog and also not let him eat her cone.

She eats her ice cream slowly, perched on a street bench, and for that moment Coulson's happy just to sit next to her, getting dog hair all over his shirt. Her eyes are far away and she looks deep in thought.

"You should end it just before Daisy makes her decision," she says eventually. "The ending. Make it ambiguous. Leave that empty space in it for people to fill." She turns to look at him, definitive and clear, and on impulse he pulls out his phone, snaps his own picture of her. Skye's got sherbet on her nose, and her hair is windswept. It's too beautiful to upload for the public to see, he thinks, but he posts it anyway, captions it  _taking a break from post-production hell_. He can't think of any witty hashtags, right now. All he can think is that  _later_ feels like too long away.

 

+

 

When they finally finish the cut of the film and lock it in, Coulson feels at a loose end until Skye texts him asking if he wants to join her for tacos.  _Sure_ , he sends back, because it's just tacos, and he feels like maybe he needs to warn her about what promotion's actually going to involve.

"Oh god," she groans, over grilled fish tacos and salsa and beautiful slices of fresh avocado, "I have no idea what I should be doing for the premiere. I'm supposed to get, like, a dress, right? Something fancy?"

"Yeah," Coulson laughs, "yeah, usually that's expected. Maybe even more than one dress. Look, I'll get Nat to email you tonight, she works with a bunch of stylists, I'm sure you'll figure it out. She can take you through that press coaching I was telling you about."

"Hey, thanks," Skye replies, still looking a little wary. She sips her margarita, licks salt off the rim. Coulson watches her mouth in fascination, drags his eyes away.

"Look, just... you don't have to  _worry_ ," he tells her. "If you're just  _yourself_ , you won't fail to charm every reporter. You're  _likable_ , Skye, just as you are. You don't have to be anyone else for that to happen." She gives him a long look across the table, and Coulson's not really surprised, the next day, when Nat emails him a link to a TMZ article about their "casual dinner date at Hollywood's hottest Mexican fusion".

 _My life would be a lot easier right now if you stopped dating your lead actress and denying you're dating your lead actress_ , she says, and Coulson doesn't bother to reply.

 

+

 

In deference to Nat and her terrible life, Coulson doesn't appear at the premiere with Skye. He takes Nat, instead, and she's a bombshell the way she always is, in oyster-grey satin and perfect auburn curls and red lipstick and a face that says,  _I could kill a man and not break a sweat_. Phil is always kind of relieved that she's on his side, to be honest, because if she wanted to take him down, it'd take her approximately two minutes with a bad wifi connection.

"I'm only here because you promised you'd set me up with Maria," she murmurs, smiling for the cameras.

"And I will absolutely do that. I'll even pay for the dinner," he agrees, and then sees Skye arrive, and it's only Nat surreptitiously pinching his upper arm and leaning in again to say, under her breath, " _staring_ , Phil," that makes him look away. Skye's organized to appear with Trip, he knows, because she's told him, and they make a picture together both poised and smiling and youthfully, gloriously perfect. Skye's in a sleek white dress, cap sleeves and a perfectly minimal cut, and when she turns away he sees that it's backless, her shoulders and back glowing golden under the flashbulbs. His mouth goes dry as he imagines pressing kisses down her spine.

"Oh my god, you have the worst case of hearts for eyes, I can't even tease you about it," Nat sighs, and he blinks, smirks down at her.

"Which stylist did you work with?"

"Barton," she says, and Coulson raises an eyebrow.

"Really? I'm surprised she's not in purple."

"I might have helped," Nat admits, bares her teeth. "He's still afraid of me after what he styled Saoirse in for  _Budapest_. That green dress, what was he thinking, I don't care if it was Valentino." Skye and Trip draw closer, and Trip pulls Phil in for a hug.

"Damn, director, you're looking fine," he says appreciatively, and Coulson laughs, pauses for the photo the paparazzi are after. 

"Who's dressed you tonight?" a journalist asks Skye, and her lips curve into a pleased smile. 

"Calvin Klein," she replies, poses for another shot. She's wearing dark burgundy lipstick, her hair lightly waved, and Phil knows she's going to be on the best dressed lists tomorrow. Nat did  _good_.

"Are you enjoying the red carpet? Skye? What's it like?"

"Overwhelming," she admits. "I'm thinking next time I might bring my dog."

"Aw come on, girl," Trip says. "You know I look good. Armani, by the way, not that anyone's asked." _  
_

"Yeah, you're alright," Skye teases. "But have you  _seen_ my dog, though?"

"He's pretty cute," Coulson agrees, and Skye smiles at him warm and amused. She pulls him in for a hug too, careful not to crease her dress, and when she steps back, he sets a hand on the small of her back, rubs a tiny circle with his thumb across her bare skin, and she leans up to press a kiss to his cheek. Not a celebrity air kiss, like he's expecting - her lips brush his skin just enough to be deliberate. Of course the flashbulbs go off again. He's relieved, when they go into the dark of the theater, because at least he won't look so starry-eyed every time he looks at her. The next two hours he spends staring at Skye's face blown up and projected across a film screen, and it's still not as bad as that one moment with his hand on her skin and her lips on his cheek and all their secrets laid bare in such  _obvious_ body language.

 _Come on_ , Nat emails the next day, and the attached photo is of Coulson and Skye side by side, sharing that amused moment. He has a perfect burgundy lipstick print on one cheek.

 

+

 

Coulson can't deny, he's nervous about the reviews. He brings up a website - Washington Post, not New York Times, because, okay, he's petty and bitter - and makes a coffee, tries not to think about it, finally clicks into the film section. Starts reading, and lets out the breath he didn't know he was holding.

 

 

> * * *
> 
> _SHIELD_ , 2015: ****1/2 (Skye Zabo, Antoine Triplett)
> 
> In a world where everyone has secrets and nobody is who they seem, secret agent Daisy Johnson starts questioning not only her origin but her own organization's role in her unknown history.  _SHIELD_ could easily take the well-trodden route of a predictable spy thriller. We've all seen them: spy versus spy, masters that have their own agenda, hidden secrets that must out. In the hands of a lesser writer and director, this could be formulaic and clunky. But Phil Coulson adds some satisfyingly unexpected twists, brings his characteristically tender wit and charm, and crafts with a light hand. The result: a film that's smarter, sexier, and more feminist than a Bond film, but with just as much high-octane action. 
> 
> Supporting lead Antoine Triplett is as delightful as ever, bringing zinging chemistry and hilarious beat timing. Why Triplett hasn't been cast in a romcom blockbuster yet is a mystery to us. It's breakout star Skye Zabo, though, that elevates the film to something truly spectacular. She fully inhabits the lead role, and lifts Coulson's screenwriting into a tense psychological thriller that flawlessly delves into raw, heartfelt emotion without tipping into overwrought. Zabo's performance brings a luminous clarity, directness and intensity that is unparalleled.  _SHIELD_ is a return to form for Coulson, and an absolute must-see. 
> 
> * * *
> 
>  

Skye calls him as he finishes reading, and when he answers the phone, she's making nothing but a high-pitched noise.

"They  _liked it_ ," she says, breathless. "Phil, they  _liked it_."

"They loved it," he corrects her. "They loved  _you._ "

"Rotten Tomatoes is rating it 95% fresh," she tells him, triumphant, and he starts laughing, because god, it feels good to be a success again.

 

+

 

Skye has two conditions for the press interviews: Nat stays in the room, and she only does group press or joint interviews with Coulson. It's not that weird, so he rolls with it, and they sit in anonymous hotel rooms in LA and New York and London and Paris and Tokyo and Seoul for hours, days, years, an eternity, drinking mineral water and answering more or less inane questions.

 

"Did you enjoy working on  _SHIELD_ more than what you were doing before?"

"No, bringing people pie and coffee refills was the culmination of all my goals in life. Sorry, that's mean. Of course I enjoy it more, because it lets me work with stand-up guys like Coulson and the whole crew. It also let me do something that I discovered I was really passionate about - bringing a truth and a set of emotions to screen, even if it's a dramatic version of that truth."

 

"What's your favorite thing about suddenly becoming a star actress?"

"The fame and the money. Actually, getting to take my dog to a red carpet event. The designer even made him a bow tie to match my dress, I've never seen anything more adorable."

 

"What's your least favourite thing about instant fame?"

"People take photos of me in the weirdest places. And gossip magazines keep saying I'm having torrid affairs with people. How do you get used to that? Did  _you_ get used to that?"

"Don't you know we're having a torrid affair right now?" Coulson says dryly. Skye gives him a playful look which he hopes the journalist doesn't properly interpret. "Seriously, though, I absolutely believe that as a man in the industry I don't get the same level of interest in my love life. It's definitely a double standard."

"You'd rather people were more interested in your love life?" Skye teases, and he rolls his eyes, gives her a look that the journalist definitely does catch.

 

"You have a habit of taking on protégés, Phil. Some people are comparing Skye to your most famous discovery, Akela Amador. Do you think Skye's rise and fall from fame will be so quick?"

"Akela is a brilliant actress, but I think it's unfair to compare them. Skye's talent is her own. They're very different people, and I think Skye would have established herself as a powerful force regardless of whether I discovered her or not. She's got that way about her."

 

"Fashion blogs have started picking you as an up-and-coming style icon. Do you have a favorite designer?"

"Uh, I like Prada, I guess. And Lanvin? Look, I literally just have a great stylist, if it were up to me I'd be wearing, I don't know, something from Forever 21. I didn't know until Phil told me that I needed a different dress for every red carpet event, which, what's  _with_ that?"

"I, on the other hand, adore my suits."

"He does, it's true, the whole movie, I'd be dragging myself onset for 5am calls basically in my pajamas, because I'd just be going through hair and makeup and costume anyway, and he'd be there immaculately pressed into a three-piece suit. Even in Hunan! Oh my god, okay, so when we were shooting in Hunan, it was monsoon season, and we're doing a scene that's way out in the mountains, and it's just, okay, it's  _so_ humid, like 40 degrees. The whole crew were dying of heat. And there Phil is, in a  _wool suit_. I don't know how you didn't get heat exhaustion."

"I think that was the time I actually took my jacket off."

"Yeah, you did, when it started pouring with rain and you got drenched right through."

"Don't you wish the internet had  _that_ photo opportunity, huh."

"Actually I took a picture, do you want to see?"

"Stop sharing my secret shame, Skye."

"The public have a right to know, Phil. Information wants to be free."

 

"Is it true you were living in your van before you signed on for  _SHIELD_?"

"That's classified," Skye says with a smirk.

 

"The two of you have only agreed to do press together, no one-on-one interviews. What's going on there? Are you intimately involved?"

"Don't answer that," Nat says casually from where she's filing her nails in the corner. The look she gives the E! reporter says something along the lines of 'this is only a nail file, but please, let me show you how it can be  _so much more_.' The reporter blanches.

"Let me rephrase," she says hastily. "Can you tell me more about your working relationship?"

 

"Is it true that you were discovered in a diner?"

"No, actually it was a strip club."

"Oh my god, Skye, you can't say that, they'll print it."

"You won't print that," Nat says, gives the reporter a very beatific smile. They don't print it.

 

"Christine Everhart, Vanity Fair. I'm going to cut straight to the point, with this interview: Grant Ward implied you got your big break thanks to a casting couch, not a casting call. Do you have any comment on that?" Coulson opens his mouth, ready to blast, and Skye jumps in quickly.

"Of course I have no control over what people want to say about me in the press, that's something I've had to learn very quickly. Every potential relationship is analyzed to death before it's even begun. But I'd like to think my performance in this film speaks for itself. I was very lucky that Coulson cast me. But I have to be clear: he's treated me with nothing but the utmost respect and propriety. He's been a huge support to me, in making the jump from real life to what feels, most days, like a surreal and glitzy dream."

"And what do you think of Grant's performance, in the film he quit  _SHIELD_ to take on?"

"I'll be honest with you, Christine, I haven't seen it. Grant's acting skills are... impressive, though, so I'm sure it's a great film."

"He had to make the choice that was right for him," Coulson agrees blandly.

"Yes, you re-wrote the script to give Skye the main role, didn't you?" Everhart asks, her eyes sharp, and Coulson remembers that she's kind of one of his favorite reporters.

"I did," he confirms. "There was friction. You can interpret that how you like." She smirks, turns to Skye.

"Your performance is being praised for how you've portrayed such a nuanced depiction of Agent Johnson's psychological issues around abandonment and trauma. Are there any experiences that you drew on to construct that role?"

"Well, I do identify with Daisy Johnson, actually," Skye says earnestly, sitting forward in her chair. "It's not something that I've mentioned before, because I do try to keep my personal history private. I don't think I've even shared it with the director. But I grew up in and out of the system. My mom died when I was a baby, and my dad fell apart trying to keep our family together." Her eyes fill with tears, and Coulson reaches for her hand without thinking. The journalist is totally silent. "That experience, that trauma, it's not something you can suppress or forget, even when you can live with it. So playing Daisy, and watching her story map out, seeing her reach that catharsis of discovery, it was really therapeutic, actually. It made me very emotional." There's a long pause, the only noise in the room the mini tape recorder, and Skye wipes her eyes.

"I didn't know," Coulson breathes. "Any of that, I had no idea.  _Skye_ , Jesus."

"Well, you couldn't have known," she replies, ducks her head and tucks her hair behind her ears in what he knows, from months of working with her, is her strongest tell.

"I discovered Skye because of her emotional clarity," he tells the journalist, giving Skye time to compose herself. "Even though I wasn't aware of her history, it's not surprising to me that she's drawn on that, made it open and honest, and turned it into a source of strength. To have lost a parent like that - I lost my father, when I was nine, and I can't even imagine mining that grief and vulnerability into such a powerful performance." He gazes at Skye for a long moment, hardly hears the camera shutter going.

It's the shot they use for the cover: Skye, looking wide-eyed and intent at the camera, a trace of tears still visible, and Coulson slightly out of focus, his face turned toward hers, his eyes soft and tender and surprised.

Everhart sends Phil a copy of the magazine when the interview is published. She's quoted their conversation in full, lingering over his 'steady support and emotional honesty about their working relationship', and finishes the article:  _Skye might be Hollywood's freshest ingenue, but the hype is down to raw talent. Her performance in SHIELD is refreshing in its innocent, realist naivety, and lacks any of the contrived cynical grittiness that's pervaded filmmaking in the last few years. Call us sentimentalists, but we're converts to the Skye brand of Hollywood idealism._

 

+

 

When Coulson first hears the Oscars buzz, he thinks he's mistaken. "They're saying we're going to get a nom," he tells May, as Andrew grills their dinner on the patio, and she snorts.

"You didn't even put up a campaign, did you?" 

"Didn't think it was worth it, really. It's not the sort of film the Academy goes for. You think I should start schmoozing the voters?"

"I don't know," May shrugs. "Call Maria."

Phil does call Maria, and she sounds exceptionally amused.

"Phil, I've been running the campaign for months, ever since Skye started getting exceptional reviews from everyone. Her press interviews have only helped, of course, that Vanity Fair interview sealed the deal. Everyone's so charmed by an out-of-the-blue-a-star-is-born story. Write a film about that, would you?"

As a result, the day the nominations are due to come out, Coulson and the whole cast are huddling on his couch (and armchairs, and floor) while Maria stalks up and down his garden, chain-smoking cigarettes. Coulson hears her cellphone go, and she answers, talks rapidly in a tone too low to hear.

"That was Nick," she says eventually, grinding a cigarette butt under her heel. "They're out." May refreshes the open page on her tablet, her face expressionless.

" _Well_?" Simmons asks. Skye is gnawing on her thumbnail.

"Best Director," May says, and Coulson chokes on his own breath. "Best Actress in a Leading Role.  _Best Picture_." There's a pause, and then everyone is screaming, jumping up and down and clutching at each other.

"I'm an  _Academy Award nominee_ ," Skye says, in absolute disbelief. "I-" She grabs the tablet off May, reads the nominations more closely. "I'm nominated against  _three-time Academy Award winner Meryl Streep_ , Phil, what  _even._ " She throws her arms around him, hugs him tight, and Phil thinks, what even.  
_  
_

 

+

 

He gets a lot of media calls, of course, and deals with them mostly in good humor, because he's been nominated for an Oscar, and that tends to put someone in a really great mood. Then someone from Salon calls, and says with no preamble, "So, Mr Coulson. Robert Gonzales, director of  _The Iliad_ , slated as the top pick for the Best Film winner this year, was less than complimentary about your film and Skye's role within it. I can read you the quote, if you like?"

"Sure," Coulson says, very bland, because he might as well hear what Gonzales has to say about him.

"Well, okay," the reporter says, clears his throat. "Gonzales:  _Phil Coulson started his career as a good director. But I don't think SHIELD is the new direction of filmmaking, actually. Coulson can cast any of his talented pets. He might get a good performance out of them. That doesn't lift the film beyond a hacknied chick flick. A film without a strong foundation, an honest storyline, that'll fail every time_."

"He said that, huh," Coulson says. "No comment, I guess." It's a pity. He'd liked Gonzales.

 

+

 

"So Trip's taking his mom to the Oscars," Skye tells him in between interviews, because the studio (aka, Maria Hill) has ramped up their publicity schedule thanks to the nominations. Coulson smiles.

"That's very cute," he says, and Skye smacks him lightly.

"Not the point! The point is, I have no date for the Oscars."

"So take Clark," he smirks, and Skye sighs, crosses her arms, pouts at him.

"How long before the next interview?" she asks, pulls her feet up onto her armchair and curls in on herself. She looks very tired, all of a sudden.

"Five minutes," Nat says, from the corner where she's multitasking with error checks and emails and probably some world domination, and Skye nods, tools about on her phone. A few seconds later, Phil feels his own phone buzz.

 _All these hotel rooms and we're not putting them to good use_ , Skye's texted.

_We're on a publicity tour. There's hardly time._

_Come on. It'd make great publicity. We're both attractive people. Imagine the press if we were caught with our stupid sexy mouths on each other._

_You think my mouth is sexy?_

_Phil. It's painfully sexy. Do you realize you do this thing with your tongue._  Coulson feels a hot blush creep up the back of his neck, and the next journalist knocks at the door in what he thinks is frankly just in the nick of time.

He does the thing with his tongue, though, drags it thoughtfully across his lower lip in the middle of a response about character motivation, and Skye makes a little noise that she covers with a cough, takes a sip of water and doesn't look at him for the rest of the interview. Nat snorts audibly.

His phone buzzes again, late that night, and it's not a text, it's Skye calling him. When he answers, her voice sounds a little husky, as if she's bone tired. He knows the feeling. He doesn't even remember which city they're in right now.

"I can't sleep," she admits, and he murmurs agreement, settles back into the soft white sheets and pillows. "I thought about texting you my room number, but that's not..."

"Appropriate," he agrees, and she makes a noise he can't decipher.

"Yeah.  _Appropriate_ ," she breathes, falls silent for a moment. "I think about it all the time," she says, after the pause, and Coulson suddenly feels on edge.

"About what?"

"You," she sighs, "your painfully sexy mouth. Your  _arms,_ Jesus Christ. How I could be kissing you all the time. We spend like eighteen hours a day together, Phil, and I can't even touch you in public without it being a  _thing_."

"I'm sorry," he admits. "If I'd known- if I'd thought that-"

"What, you wouldn't have cast me if you'd known that we'd fall for each other in a major way? Don't be ridiculous, Phil. It's just hard to wait, that's all. And I want to take you to the Oscars. And to have you in this bed right now." Coulson closes his eyes, imagines the warmth of Skye's body pressed against his.

"Yeah," he agrees. "Yeah."

"So I could go to sleep right now," Skye says, her voice dropping to an intimate whisper. "Or, I could not."

"Skye," Coulson gets out, and she laughs softly.

"Do you know how often I think about your mouth on my skin," she murmurs, and Phil's sunk. "You could be undressing me right now, Phil. I could be leaving delicious bite-mark bruises on your throat for you to hide under all those great suits."

" _Skye_ ," he says again, his voice rough.

" _Coulson_ ," she mimics back, lets out a breathy moan that betrays what she's doing, and fuck,  _fuck_ , why are they doing this to each other, it's stupid, it's so stupid, this isn't professional, this is them burning toward each other in a blaze that must be visible from space by now. He  _wants_ , so badly, wants Skye's room number or to listen to her touch herself or to just call a damn press conference and announce publicly what everyone must surely know already.

"Go to sleep," Coulson tells her instead. "You need the rest."

"Okay," she murmurs. "Okay. Good night, Phil. Sweet dreams."

He dreams of Skye. He supposes it's sweet.

 

+

 

In the end, Skye doesn't take anyone to the Oscars, appears on the red carpet alone like a gorgeous, elegant statue. Coulson recognizes her gown as Prada, this season, diaphanous and fresh in the palest jade green tulle, and unconsciously tugs at the lapel of his tux, straightens his bow tie. They gravitate towards each other, and Skye works the red carpet and the press as if she's been doing this for decades instead of under a year. She tilts her head and laughs at a question Coulson didn't hear, her emerald drop earrings glittering in the light, and it's there, on the Oscars red carpet in front of like a thousand photographers and journalists and bloggers and fans, that Coulson realizes he's in love with her, has been in love with her for  _months_ , has maybe been in love with her since they started shooting the film. It's so transparent he's sure it'll show up in every gossip column tomorrow.

She greets him with air kisses, gives him the closed-off smile he recognizes as her press face, and they pose again.

"This is really not what I thought being a celebrity would be like," she murmurs. "I thought there'd be more vacations. Fewer press ops."

"Skye? Skye? How do you rate your chances?" an E! reporter asks, pushing a microphone out, and she tosses her head, gives them a self-deprecating smile.

"Honestly, it's an honor just to be nominated," she says. "Also, I got to dress up in what is seriously the most amazing princess dress ever, so my night's already a success." The reporter laughs, successfully charmed, and turns to Phil.

"What about you?  _SHIELD_ 's up for three awards tonight, including Best Film. Any thoughts on that?"

"Of course, I think Skye deserves to win," he says honestly. "But like she said, it's an honor just to be nominated. I don't want to jinx it beyond that." He honestly doesn't think there's much to jinx - the Academy's conservative, kind of racist, interested in a very particular kind of film, though of course he'd never admit that publicly. He's still surprised they're even on the cards right now.

 

+

 

Two hours later, he gets the surprise of his life.

"The Academy Award for Best Actress goes to... Skye Zabo,  _SHIELD_." There's a long pause. Skye starts clapping, and he stares at her.

"Skye, that's  _you_ ," May hisses, and Coulson watches her face change from neutral to shocked to joyously overwhelmed.

" _What_ ," she says, helplessly, and their whole row starts laughing.

"Get  _up_ ," May says, "go on, have you got a speech?"

"No?!" Skye says, "no, I..." She walks onstage, accepts her award in what Coulson can tell from her expression is a dream space, and steps in front of the microphone, visibly hesitates.

"Uh, hi," she says, charmingly awkward. "I, um, I don't have a speech prepared, actually, because I don't know if you all noticed, but I was nominated against three-time Academy Award winner Meryl Streep, and how does someone  _compete_ with that?" The audience roars with laughter, and she ducks her head, smiles, hesitates again.

"I want to acknowledge, first, my parents, who couldn't be here today. I didn't know my mom and dad, but I wish I had, and I wish they'd been here to see this. And to those kids at St Agnes, or in the foster system, or feeling like they've slipped between the gaps - I love you, and I support you, and you have talent that deserves to be seen." Skye wipes tears away, unembarrassed, and takes a breath. "I want to thank, uh, the team that put this beautiful film together, and especially Fitzsimmons, who caught my light and put that on screen, and Nat, who really tried her best to turn me into someone that could adequately deal with public interviews. But I really, I guess, I really want to thank my director, Philip Coulson, who saw something in that girl in the diner, and drew it out, watched me become the actress I am. Phil recognized me, at a time when not many people did, when I didn't have many people around me, and it made all the difference. Phil, you value me in a way nobody ever has before, you value what I've become, and I - I don't think anyone's ever done anything more for me, so... thank you. Thank you."

 _You value me_ , Coulson hears her say, and it sounds like  _I love you_ , and he can't breathe, again, he's shocked speechless and he wants to kiss her so badly. He's so shocked, in fact, that he doesn't even hear his name announced for Best Director, and fumbles through a speech that maybe barely makes any sense at all. He's never felt so uncool in his life. It's fine. He won a damn Oscar. He's in love with Skye. He knows which one is better.

 

+

 

He's a little more adjusted when they reach the announcement for Best Film, and the whole team is tense again, waiting for it. Coulson knows he's hoping, knows his heart is in his throat. A secret part of him just hopes Gonzales won't win with  _The_   _Iliad_ , because come  _on._

"Best Film, 2015, goes to  _SHIELD_ ," a Hemsworth brother announces, and Skye's screaming, jumping up and down with Fitzsimmons and Bobbi and Mack. Even May's grinning, her usual stoicism abandoned, and they all crowd onstage, step back while Coulson accepts the award. He gives Skye a meaningful look, tilts his head to indicate she should join him, and she hesitates for a moment then gives him a bright, joyous smile. They give their speech jointly, words tumbling over each other, and Coulson hardly even knows what he's saying. Skye throws her arms in the air, pulls him into a hug, and it's overwhelming. He's overwhelmed. She pulls back, looks at him seriously, and he can see love in her eyes. 

 "Fuck it," Skye murmurs, "Now's later enough, right?" and without warning, she's kissing him, live on stage. 

"Well, that's the shot that'll be all over Tumblr tomorrow," he murmurs, leans in for another kiss. He's wrong.

The gossip websites have the kiss everywhere, for sure, but the shot that Tumblr goes wild for is from half an hour later, an Instagram selfie Skye snaps in the back of their limo on the way to the after-party. She's wearing his glasses. He's wearing her lipstick. #DirectorBoyfriend, she captions it, and Tumblr add their own tags:  _#otp you value me; #i ship it; #best kiss ever amirite_. He doesn't see the reaction until the next morning. He's busy. They're busy.

 

+

 

When they arrive at the after-party, the press mobs them, demanding answers:  _How long have you been dating? Is this a public acknowledgment of your relationship? Do you have any statement?_  Skye laughs at it all, doesn't let go of Coulson's hand, gives the journalists a smile and says, simply, "We're very happy, thank you." They stay at the after-party for only an hour, and it's torture, Phil thinks, because Skye's changed into a tiny, slinky beaded dress that shows off her long legs and her back and her shoulders, and he wants nothing more than to peel her out of her dress and kiss her the way he's wanted to for eight months. The way she looks at him, he thinks she feels the same way.

They finally, finally get home to his house, and she kicks off her heels, pushes Coulson up against his front door and climbs him until her legs are wrapped around his hips. He turns them round, gets her balanced against the door, and slides his hand up under her skirt, grabs her ass, kisses her hot and dirty and full of intent. She's not wearing any underwear, he discovers, and rubs a finger across the wetness of her clit.

" _Fuck_ , Phil," Skye moans, arches into it, and he pushes two fingers into her.

"We could have fucked in the bathroom at the party," he whispers into her ear. "Would you have liked that? I could have done this-" he presses his thumb to her clit, "I could have made you come right there. Or in the limo?"

"Yeah," she agrees, gasps and grinds into his hand. "Tinted windows. I could have fucked you right there in the back seat, shown up to the party with sex hair. Really made a -oh god- a  _statement_." She presses harder into him, kisses down his jaw and bites at his throat, and he hisses, carries her up the stairs to his bedroom, doesn't let her go. 

"Is this dress designer?" he asks, and she nods.

"Balmain, and it's a loan," she says, tugs off his bow tie and unbuttons his collar so she can get her mouth on more of his skin.

"That's a pity," he growls. "I really want to rip it off you."

"You'll just have to let me rip your shirt off instead," she suggests, and that's a great idea too, he thinks, but what's really important is the fact that Skye's unzipped her dress and  _they could both be naked right now_. 

They barely make it to the bed. He pulls Skye up above him, his face between her thighs, and licks teasingly over her clit until she pushes down onto his mouth with a loud moan. It's everything he's ever wanted, Skye wet and hot against his mouth, her hard breaths and gasps, and he wants to take his time with it, wants to eat her out for  _hours_. She comes quick and hard, her thighs trembling, and he holds her in place, keeps going until she's crying out, moaning nonsense.

"Oh  _god_ ," she says, "oh, Phil, fuck, there, that-" and she's coming again, harder, shuddering so hard it's like she's an earthquake around him. She collapses sideways onto the bed, lies for a minute gasping for breath, and then reaches for him, pulls him on top of her, licks her own wetness off his mouth.

"Do I need-" he asks, and Skye shakes her head, cants her hips up against him impatiently. He gets the picture, pushes into her slowly, watches the way her eyes get wider and she throws her head back. Her makeup is smudged and she's got a blush high across her cheekbones. Phil wants this moment to last  _forever_.

 

+

 

Coulson lies in bed, scrolls through the links Nat's emailed him, finds a gifset of their Oscars kiss, and Skye, leaning over his shoulder, starts laughing.

"Oh god," she says, "is that what I look like in slow motion?" Coulson smiles, closes the tab.  _Want me to kill it?_ Nat's asked, and he replies quickly.  _No, it's fine. No comment._

 _You can't 'no comment' when you've kissed on stage at the Oscars_ , he gets back, a minute later, and he angles his phone for Skye to see. She reads the email, shrugs philosophically.

"You saw the selfie I took, so, like, is it gonna kill our careers?" she asks. Phil thinks for a moment.

"Maybe?" he says, because he honestly doesn't know.

"Well," she smiles, "I guess I already won an Oscar, so I don't care that much. I could get my job back as a waitress. Maybe we could open a diner. You'll just have to write me a romcom yourself." Coulson smirks at her.

"I thought I already did. Wasn't how I discovered you a total meet-cute, after all?"

"Hmm, true," she agrees. "Shakespeare, then. Write me into a modern adaptation of, I don't know,  _As You Like It._ "

"That's... not a bad idea, actually," Coulson says, feeling ideas spark at the back of his brain, and Skye rolls her eyes, takes his phone off him and pulls him in to kiss him properly. 

"No writing for at least a fortnight. You're taking me on vacation. Tahiti?"

"Oh god, not Tahiti. How about some tiny Greek island? We can eat baklava, swim in the Mediterranean, I won't even bring my laptop."

"Sounds dreamy," Skye agrees. "I guess being an Academy award-winning actress-director power couple has its perks." She drops the sheet away from her shoulders, rolls onto her stomach, and Coulson finally presses kisses down her spine the way he wanted to for so long.

 

+ 

 

He goes back to Tumblr later, flicks through the #DirectorBoyfriend thread, and finds a gif of himself, a shot of his face during Skye's acceptance speech.  _Is this when #DirectorBoyfriend realized he was mad in love with her or what?_ asks the caption, and he smiles until his cheeks hurt, because it's not, it's not, he realized he was in love with her like two hoursbefore that, but his face says it all over. 

Coulson's Instagram shot doesn't get as many likes as Skye's, but it gets enough: a shot of their Oscar statues on the floor along with Skye's glitter clutch and his bow tie, captioned  _yeah we're very happy with our wins, and with each other._

 _The point of having me as your PR rep is that I do your damn PR, Phil_ , Nat emails him fifteen minutes later, and Skye just laughs and laughs.

She gets the final word: a selfie in the bright sunshine of Santorini. She's looking into the camera, smiling wide, her hair curling in damp tendrils from the salt water, and Phil's face is turned toward her, his expression the same tender surprise he feels basically every time he looks at her, still.

 _This isn't a spy film, this is a love story_ , she writes beneath it, and it's enough.

**Author's Note:**

> okay so this literally was just because I love Hollywood AUs and "famous people interact with the public via instagram and tumblr and twitter" stories and Ming-Na Wen posted an instagram photo of her AoS 5am call time. so, y'know, why not write a personal #TropeFest2k15 story involving Skoulson AU Hollywood.
> 
> and then it turned into 15k words and took over a week and I know more about the Academy Award nomination process than I did before.
> 
> (obviously this is an AU where a biracial homeless actress would actually be nominated and a film like SHIELD would actually win and the Academy is not quite as terribly conservative and does not continue to give awards to people like Roman fucking Polanski)
> 
>  
> 
> follow me over on tumblr if you want: http://notcaycepollard.tumblr.com/


End file.
